


pieces of you, pieces of me

by connections



Category: Psycho-Pass
Genre: Character Study, F/M, M/M, Relationship Study, fucked-up in more than one way, the author regrets nothing though, the sex works as a frame — there‘s a lot of thinking and reflecting involved really, you could tell some of these are purely self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24926860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/connections/pseuds/connections
Summary: „Please“, Shizuka whispers, voice broken and beautiful like shattered glass.seven scenes — reflections, approaches — featuring different rare pairings from all three seasons. no general theme. relationships, the absence of love, sexual encounters, falling.
Relationships: Ginoza Nobuchika/Kagari Shuusei, Ginoza Nobuchika/Tougane Sakuya, Homura Shizuka/Kei Mikhail Ignatov, Homura Shizuka/Shindo Arata, Kamui Kirito/Tsunemori Akane, Kougami Shinya/Karanomori Shion, Sugou Teppei/Kougami Shinya
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	pieces of you, pieces of me

**Author's Note:**

> so there is sexual content involved, but it‘s not really explicit which i think justifies the rating. and yeah, it did take me way too long to find titles for all of those snippets, but i remember seeing the idea somewhere and liking it a lot and. yeah.
> 
> (plus i had to add five out of seven ships to ao3 because the tags didn‘t exist. you may call it a rarepair phenomenon, but the psycho-pass fandom is quite dead anyway.)
> 
> enjoy!
> 
> // trigger warning for unhealthy relationships (definitely not non-con — i think „consensual abuse due to a lack of boundaries and self-respect” would be a term to describe the lunatic shit i wrote there? please just be careful) and a little bit of fucked-up-ness in general.

**kei mikhail ignatov & homura shizuka — indulgence**

The whole situation makes an awful lot of sense, coming to think of it, as though there simply hasn‘t been any other way for things to play out—it‘s something quite natural, destined to happen since the very first time they have met, Kei idly reflects.

His superior‘s face was serene and well-composed then, the mask of someone that has grown up pretending, and it seems like control rarely ever slips from his grasp. Interestingly, _impossibly_ , Homura Shizuka even looks like an artwork (one of the carefully planned-out ones, light and shade spilled over crisp white paper by intention, not emotion) with two fingers buried deep inside him, sapphire eyes dark and glistening with pure bliss as Kei ruthlessly—way too hungry, too demanding, just because he feels like going through with being unreasonable—works him open further.

„Please“, Shizuka whispers, voice broken and beautiful like shattered glass.

He is, in a distinctly honest manner, not particularly vocal; the throaty moans and soft noises spilling from his lips still feel like an abundance. It matches his melodic voice (his melodic way of living) better, Kei decides. So does, curiously, Shizuka‘s disheveled hair, the slight sheen of sweat on his bare shoulders, how his entire body is shivering in anticipation—it‘s a mesmerizing display of the concept of not falling apart, being present and far gone simultaneously, the bright impossibility of it all but too arousing.

In the end, it still makes sense (that Shizuka is a mystery not to be solved, that Kei is the one who can‘t contain himself). Golden threads aren‘t to be lost.

:::

**kougami shinya & karanomori shion — truisms**

Sleeping with Shion has been overdue, which is exactly what it tastes like—off, _wrong_ , like cold coffee (something supposed to be hot that just isn‘t anymore). Both of them are too careless-natured to stop.

It isn‘t _bad_ —how could soft blonde strands, lively skin, lips that scent as much of smoke as his own, then something light and sweet; how could sex with a beautiful woman be _bad_?—but it doesn‘t fit.

They‘re merely a great idea on paper that hasn‘t been created for a reality this fragile.

Kougami‘s movements are steady as ever, just the right balance between relishing and efficient hitting from just the right angles. The obscene symphony filling the room’s air is shared by both of them. It might be something about his eyes (that pretend to linger on her breasts, her lips, then to meet her‘s), something empty, that halts her.

„You‘re fine?“, she asks, exhaling.

He nods.

Shion looks him in the eyes for a long second, warm wood against the fading shade of an ocean. _Maybe we aren‘t the best idea after all,_ the expression in hers seem to say.

_She understands,_ Kougami thinks, _but not quite in the right way._

:::

**ginoza nobuchika & tougane sakuya — numbness**

His hair is curly, but just as black as Kougami‘s; he smells the same and tastes the same because smoke seems to have woven itself through all of Ginoza‘s life like some stylistic figure or maybe, simply, destiny itself.

Cigarettes after sex is a concept Tougane shares with his predecessor. Ginoza has never quite understood the appeal of it— _if you‘re finished with me, let me get out and clean myself up and get that filth off me_ —it rather feels like being held captive by a thin blanket of oh-so-bittersweet scent on damp skin, panic luring sharp and hot somewhere in the pit of his stomach.  
  


He rarely wonders why getting out (running away, _fleeing_ ) is the more natural thing to do for him. Ginoza doesn‘t not enjoy the older enforcer‘s presence, even likes it, he reckons. Needs it (as in: not wanting to need him, hating him, but hating himself more)—he needs the roughness, the sharp teeth, the relentless, beautiful pain. The mercy that lies in Tougane not knowing what mercy is to begin with.   
  


Being used like that is pleasant, likeable.

„Moan for me“, Tougane demands lowly, so he does. The voice isn‘t his own, but it‘s easy to play with (pretending, always _pretending_ , the pleasure isn‘t his own as well), and when Tougane paints his inside white and sticky, Ginoza smiles.

He needs to not be himself, and the whore owned by the vicious mouth behind him—all over him, ravaging—is being useful.

:::

**tsunemori akane & kamui kirito — damnation**

With Kamui, everything is white.

His curiosity, nearly violent in its eagerness, his deliberate touches, his lips that are soft like silk. His voice, soft as well, even more so when he‘s whispering sweet nothings into her ear, her hair, because they don‘t ( _couldn‘t_ ) share anything really.

(White because it is, _feels like,_ an overlay of 184 different voices and 184 different colours would yield white as well and sometimes, Akane wonders where the glimpses of identity he has promised her were to be found).

His future, then.

White like a piece of paper laughing, white like a beginning that‘s rather an ending, white that‘s flat and hopeless. Kamui doesn‘t seem like it, though.

_Maybe something is wrong with her,_ Akane ponders, _just because it doesn‘t bother her quite enough that the ghost whom she has allowed to come close, touch her, will vanish._

:::

**ginoza nobuchika & kagari shuusei — proximity**

Kagari tries not to think too much about how his inspector is _shivering_ beneath his touch, violently so, parted lips buried in the crook of his neck. There‘s something distinctly broken about the way he clings to his subordinate too tightly, about his ragged breathing, voice heartbreakingly beautiful with the quiet sounds Kagari can feel just as well as he can hear them—Ginoza is desperate, and it‘s a kind of desperation that can be felt seeping into one‘s bones when touching his skin (soft, but cold, _so cold,_ and slippery as ice). When breathing the same air as him.

_Touch-starved,_ it occurs to Kagari, hungry for something he doesn‘t know he needs (has been denying himself for whatever stupid reason only Ginoza would deny himself barely living on the breadline).

  
He brings one hand up to the inspector’s hair, gently combing through the long strands; resumes exploring his back with the other, spine sticking out just a little too much. Ginoza sobs, pleadingly, frustrated and upset and confused and still so very desperate, and it‘s always like that, and he smells of coffee and fear and there‘s a hint of vanilla to be found on rain-wet lips.

„It‘s okay. You‘ll be fine“, Kagari murmurs.

Whatever it is that they’re doing is symptomatic treatment (is wrong, because Ginoza hates him, because he _should_ be hating him), and they both know they won‘t last. It‘s futile, it rarely helps, but it still feels so frantically bright and _alive_.

Kagari is a latent criminal, though, and all the deferred paperwork will catch up eventually.

:::

**kougami shinya & sugou teppei — longing**

It doesn‘t change anything for the better (not for the worse, either, at least that‘s what they like to believe), but it‘s sex, so it has a point. They don‘t remember what has even provoked the inherently crooked situation they now find pleasant enough to get themselves back into it on a regular basis.

Kougami can admit to himself that he likes the way Sugou‘s pliant and willing beneath his touch, how he winces in agony when Kougami‘s thrusting grows faster, sharper, too much to take (too close for comfort, which seems to be the very nature of this fragile _thing_ between them). It reminds him of a beaten puppy.

He can‘t genuinely hate himself for it.

Sugou doesn‘t demand it—not in words that are missing entirely anyway, not with his body when burning skin and eyes-shut-mouth-open with need convey the impression that he wants to be used; or that he uses his colleague in a way that makes him, again, use Sugou.

It‘s something about proving himself (that he exists, real and touchable), but Kougami doesn‘t actually care.

Both of them think of someone else entirely, and Kougami, inches and miles beneath the light blanket of snow and mutual respect that‘s just as cold, hates Sugou for the soft smiles he doesn‘t deserve anymore himself.

:::

**homura shizuka & shindo arata — simplicity**

Shizuka wonders why life (destiny, the universe, whoever‘s constantly toying with him like that) has chosen _him_ as a delectable opponent in a game that isn‘t designed to be won. He‘s used to it, of course. Winning would’ve granted him freedom, but freedom is a luxury reserved for the mercifully lost—daydreamers and the dead—and not for someone like Shizuka.

_You‘re so good at playing._

It‘s easy, because the world is nothing but an oversized chess board, moves clear and foreseeable and so very dependent on what happens before and after. Others fail because they tend to mistake humans for pawns they can relocate from white to black however they please (which was wrong—humans choose their moves themselves in a way that‘s as impulsive and emotional as it is predictable), and Shizuka doesn‘t, and there isn‘t anything else to it.

_Preferences have nothing to do with that._

He‘s questioning that, now, because being in control of someone else _does_ have a certain appeal to it.

Arata is fascinating laying on his back before him, bare and open and so very honest, thighs quivering with need when Shizuka finally puts his mouth to use. He wants to wholly swallow the delicious stream of blissed-out noises tumbling from his subordinate’s lips (he imagines a flavour of orange and cinnamon, sweet and slightly tangy). What he tastes is salt, a hint of bitterness, and it‘s good enough.

„Are you okay?“ he asks, voice smiling, and earns an eager nod—another sharp inhale as he picks up his pace again, then shaky fingers tangling themselves in his hair. Arata has a beautiful voice, he decides, even more so with the distinctly undone quality there is to it now.

_  
I placed a bet on you._

Playing is easy (pushing all the right buttons in all the right ways; making Arata scream with pleasure), but it isn‘t actually the point—the point is how _fascinating_ the young inspector is just like this, far gone and honest, not acting, but reacting, mask slipped off so that he can breathe. He‘s loud.

Shizuka decides that the entire situation feels like _alive_ , and that it‘s precious and rare, and that being human is an intimate gift given to one individual by another.

Arata comes, Shizuka swallows, the kiss he presses to his subordinate‘s lips is gentle. His thumb wiping stray tears away leaves a _thank you_ on Arata‘s cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! comments make me cry genuine tears of joy!
> 
> @ ginoskanshikan on twitter


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